Bon Repos
I have always wanted a house with a name. (Of course my
imaginary house was a centuries old stone cottage surrounded by herb gardens
and flowerbeds.) And I have known the name for the last fifteen years. Bon
Repos. Good Rest.
I don’t have a stone cottage but I do have an old farmhouse
that has stood strong for 127 years. No longer surrounded by fields, it is
nevertheless rooted on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking houses decades
younger than itself. Four nights ago I saw the walls lurch violently as a small
earthquake shook Northern Colorado. I imagine this house has seen its share of
storms, floods, fires and even earthquakes in the last five quarters of a
century, but here it stands. Cool breezes blow through the porch carrying the
smell of cut grass. A certain hush inhabits the house, one that has nothing to
do with sound. It is a patient waiting for people to accept what is offered.
Rest.
Bon Repos. Just like Bon Appétit but for the heart instead
of the stomach. It is part wish, part command, and part promise.
Our house in Laramie was a haven, a refuge, a place of
safety. But only for us. It was a bunker built for four and it sheltered us
through many battles.
1801 11th Street is different. The words “Bon
Repos” are outside over our screen door. Right out in front where anyone can
read them.
It is an invitation.
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